


No, I Won't Sit Nice and Be Quiet

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Warming, Come Shot, Dirty Talk, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub, F/M, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kinky, Multiple Orgasms, Pet Names, Public Sex, Safewords, Sex, Sex Toys, Smut, Submission, Verbal Humiliation, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: An offshoot in the 'When He Calls Me Kitten' universe. Jaskier is away at an engagement, leaving you with Geralt, who does not pay you enough attention. Instead of being an adult about it and discussing your needs, you choose to be a brat. You are summarily punished.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698223
Comments: 16
Kudos: 262





	No, I Won't Sit Nice and Be Quiet

“Pity Jaskier is at a court engagement, hmm?” Geralt says, as he circles you like a shark herding a seal pup into shallow waters, “His punishments are always far more lenient.” He captures your jaw with his hand, and you’re all wide eyes and pretty pout. “Oh, and _that_ expression would definitely work on him.” The Witcher’s chuckle is rough, like the edge of newly-cut leather.

You knew it wouldn’t work, but you are ever-hopeful.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, as he releases his grip upon you and begins to stalk again. His footsteps are almost soundless. He’s predator, you are prey. And oh, how you wish for him to devour you.

“You were being a brat.” He informs you, and you suppress a shiver, trying to keep your posture straight, although you are staring at your boots. “And you know it.”

Again, he’s right. Although you’d begun the day as an attentive and doting companion, the Witcher’s penchant for quietly studying the map route, or watching patrons in the tavern in silence, or brushing away your curious questions with a low noise had grated on you. You should have been an adult and expressed your desire for attention, told him that you felt bored and a bit neglected, and you know he would have rectified the situation for you.

Instead, you’d wandered over to the bar whilst he was reading, and had begun to flirt with the tender. He was young, eager, and blushing under your overt giggling and wrist touching and eyelash flitting. Geralt had let the scene play out before him for approximately five minutes before he’d stormed over, swept his arm around the curve of your hips, and had marched you upstairs to your shared room. You didn’t see, but he gifted the poor tender a glare so vicious that the boy dropped the mug he’d been holding. _Mine_ , the Witcher’s eyes said.

You say nothing, full of shame, wishing you had better impulse control. He was silent, too, clearly deciding upon your punishment. It was a torture in itself, the unknown; that, and the fact that you knew you’d disappointed him.

“I could cane you.” He rumbles, “Whip your pretty bum until it’s bruised.” A slow smile spreads on his lips as he scents the instant response of your body, the arousal. “ _There’s_ the problem, though. Not only will you enjoy it, I’ll be the only one privy to your repentance. No, it won’t do.”

You almost want to whimper. But you stay as still as possible, standing where he’s instructed you to, your hands folded contritely in front of you. Deep breaths to control the race of your pulse, as he has taught you.

“You are to sit on my lap downstairs at dinner tonight.” He speaks, and you can’t help it – you flick your gaze to his in a question. It’s hardly a punishment. When he returns your stare, steady and fossil-amber pretty, you see yourself as the specimen trapped within. There’s more. Of course there’s more.

“Yes, Geralt.” You agree readily, because he’s waiting for you to do so. He grunts. Leans in. You smell him; bathed by you this morning, all faint spice and citrus and something decidedly masculine that belongs exclusively to him.

“With my cock inside you.” He adds, and his grin is all canine points as your eyes widen. You swallow thickly.

“Yes, Geralt.” Your voice wavers a little, but you’re up to the challenge.

“And,” His breath brushes your earlobe, and you cannot help it; you shiver, “The toy strapped to your clit, beneath your skirts.”

You know the one he is speaking of; he and Jaskier had it made for you. An obsidian bead enchanted by magic, responsive to the Witcher’s command only. It fits around your hips with a buckle and sits neatly against your pussy. When he wishes it, it comes alive in a silent hum. You adore the thing – oh, the times you’ve worn it whilst Jaskier has been balls-deep within you, Geralt’s cock down your throat, as you’ve dissolved into the throes of orgasm after orgasm.

But that has been behind closed doors. This is very different. You are to sit still in his lap, warm his cock, and try not to make a spectacle of yourself. You feel a flush begin to settle across your skin. There’s no way you’ll be able to hold back. You’ll come in the tavern, in public, in front of so many people.

Whether or not they know will be up to your control.

He knows it’s a fitting and delicious punishment. If you wanted to be seen as a sexual object, as a free woman for any man’s taking, he is giving you a chance. If you were going to flirt with other men in front of him – whilst you wore his and Jaskier’s collar – well. He’d let them see just how lustful and needy you truly are.

He’s waiting for you to agree. You’re already wet, already feeling the sweat bead beneath your bodice, and he hasn’t so much as laid a finger upon you. Gods, you are in _so_ much trouble. And he’s revelling in it.

“Yes, Geralt.” You finally accept, although your voice is tiny. He purrs his approval, and moves away from you. You feel weak, and long to swoon like a lady in a romance novel, crumpling to the ground in a puddle.

“Your word, Kitten?” He asks, as you hear him moving about, choosing clothes for you to wear.

“Sun.” You say, and he hums. If it’s too much, you know he’ll have you out of the situation in seconds, into safety. But you’ve already let him down once today, and you’re determined.

“Wash up.” He commands, “And dress. I hear there’s a birthday celebration in the tavern tonight. Should be a busy affair.”

Fuck. Gods. You try not to slouch as you make your way over to the basin to refresh yourself.

You feel the weight of his stare upon you the entire time that you prepare.

\---------------

Mercifully, he chooses a fairly secluded corner of the tavern. Perhaps he wants to teach you a lesson, but you know that he’ll also get fairly possessive if your behaviour gets out of hand. As he predicted, the place is dotted with patrons making merry, and wine and ale are flowing plentifully.

He directs you to sit on his lap at the same moment that he rucks your skirts up, letting them settle in a private halo around your debauched activity. Beneath his loosely laced breeches, you can feel he’s already hard for you, delighting in the anticipation. The bead feels warm and tight against your clit, although it is motionless. Subtly, he undoes the ties of his pants, and you feel his fingers purposefully brush your bare backside.

Fuck, you’re already seeping onto the fabric of his thigh, and he hasn’t even done anything.

“Drinks, my lady, sir Witcher?” A tavern waitress comes by. You hate that she addresses you above Geralt, but he’s used to it. You stay silent as he answers for both of you. His hand is still cupping your ass beneath your skirts.

“Ale for me, and a glass of water. Thank you.” The scratch of his limestone-weathered voice is steady, and you wish you had his composure. You can’t even meet the waitress’ eye. She nods, and sweeps away.

“Are you ready, Kitten?” He whispers in your ear, and you take a deep breath, gripping the table with one hand.

“Yes, Geralt.” You reply obediently, and hear his low murmur of approval. With a slowness that should be considered torture, he lifts your hips, and you feel the blunt head of his cock part the folds of your slick cunt. Inch by inch you take him, and you have to fight off a moan at the feeling of fullness, the pleasurable burn.

He’s still taking you when the waitress returns, and you tense up, but he does not slow. As she serves your drinks, he sinks the last few inches of his dick within you, nodding his head in gratitude at the woman and dropping coin for his ale.

You’re trying to be still, but your legs are quivering. Instinct screams at you to ride him, to take your pleasure, but common sense reminds you that you’re surrounded by a mass of people who are laughing and drinking and talking. A bard is playing one of Jaskier’s songs, and he’s not doing it justice. For now, you’re unnoticed, but if you started bouncing in Geralt’s thigh – well. _That_ might earn you a few stares.

So you sit, and try to breathe, your fingers flexing against the table edge.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Geralt’s low voice makes you whimper, “Having me inside of you, out here. Knowing who you belong to. Having a secret.”

He punctuates his sentence with the smallest thrust of his hips, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Not trusting your voice – because you think you might moan – you just nod instead.

“That barkeep you like so very much is looking at us, Kitten.” He drawls, and with frantic eyes, you glance across the tavern. The young man is definitely looking your way, although you know he’s deterred by the Witcher. He’d be a fool to come near you. “Why don’t you put on a little show for him?”

“Geralt, I—” You beg, but then. _Oh,_ then the bead is coming alive in a low buzz, controlled by a gesture of his hand. Unbidden, your head rolls back to hit the Witcher’s large shoulder, and you choke on a sigh, about to writhe in his lap like a bought prostitute before there’s a shout from one of the party-goers, and you remember that you’re very much in public. Your thighs ache as you clench your legs, trying to still them.

He makes a low moan at your ear, enjoying the flutter of your cunt around his deeply buried cock, the tight flex of your walls. The vibration increases, and you lean forward, opening your mouth, desperately grasping for your mug of water so it looks like you’re doing something – anything – but getting off on warming the Witcher’s cock. For a few seconds, the intensity increases sharply, the obsidian humming against your throbbing clit and just before you think you might lose your fucking mind, it stops.

In the wake of it – maybe less than thirty seconds – you’re breathing heavily, warm with blush, and already so close to orgasm that it takes a moment for your pussy to stop pulsing. His breath is deeper at your back, and you know he’s feeling the effects, too, both from your tightness and from the vibrations. But he’s still so composed.

“That was beautiful, Kitten.” He praises, as he reaches for his ale to drink of it, “Almost had you rutting in my lap, and we’ve barely started. What a little whore you are.”

You tremble at the degradation, and a fresh trickle of your juices washes down his balls beneath your skirts. He smirks. Across the tavern, the barkeep is flicking curious glances at you, but he’s mostly occupied with the party. Nobody else is paying you mind.

“Please,” Your voice is a sultry husk, “ _P-please_ , Geralt.”

“What are you asking for, Kitten?” He wonders, and you realise that you don’t know. He chuckles. “You want to come? I could have you screaming in less than a minute, baby. You want to leave my lap? You want me to,” And the bead begins to move again, “ _Bend_ you over the table and _fuck you_ in front of all of these people?”

You almost scream a ‘yes’ at the last suggestion, because it’s so filthy and your rational mind has exited the establishment, leaving you squirming in his lap. “Wanna... _come_.” You manage, fingers so tight on the table your nailbeds are paling.

“You’re free to, Kitten,” He instructs, “Any time you like. How loud you are – well. That’s up to you.”

He doesn’t increase the intensity of the toy, but he does make a low sound when you grind your hips down, trying to get as close to him as possible. The pleasure is building in tangled knots in your belly, a weaving web of thread that grows. He doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but rest his hands at your hips and pant lowly at the nape of your neck.

Some last bastion of sanity screams that the bard’s chorus is approaching, and it’s a loud and bawdy thing; no doubt the patrons will join in. You just have to last for the rest of the bridge. Every breath you exhale carries a whimper, and the fisting of your cunt is so fierce around his cock that you know you’ll feel him for a whole day after this.

You break on the first chord. Without your permission, your hips snap forward, and you feel his strong hands pull you close to his body as your orgasm thrashes through you. You bury your face into the pale column of his throat as you scream, but the sound is muffled by his flesh and the swelling song. You’re trying to rock your hips, to fuck him, but he’s keeping you still as your twitching walls seize violently around his cock. You can feel it flex within you, and know he’s close to spilling, too. And fuck, you want it.

“Please,” You beg again, “Come—inside me, fuck, _please_ fill me, please _please_ , I’m sorry, I-I’m _yours_ , make me yours again,” The words are slurred and lustful but he hears them. For the briefest moment you think he might lose control and actually bend you over the table, but instead his hands tighten around your hips hard enough to bruise. He uses your hair to silence his low groan as he climaxes, and you feel the burst of his come pulsing hot and steady within you. The bead has turned you hypersensitive and squirming, and as more jets of his seed squirt within you, you peak a second time.

He has the presence of mind to turn the toy off, which some part of you is thankful for, because you’ve made a gushing mess on his trousers. As he spends the last of his load, you ride out the smaller orgasm, keening against his collarbone, one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

In the aftermath, you’re too dazed to move, too strung-out to do anything but lay back against him. He holds you and purrs, pressing kisses to your forehead. You can feel his cock flexing within you with the aftershocks, and every time you jolt and shiver.

“Good girl.” He praises, and that brings you back to reality. The words mean you’ve taken your punishment well, and that he’s proud, and you revel in the feel of his approval. You must be glowing, because he pauses to kiss you with such tenderness that he thieves your breath. Love-drunk, you stare at him.

He smiles. “Okay, _that_ expression works on me.” He admits, and you giggle. “Come on. I’ve already ordered us a bath, because you? Kitten, you’re absolutely _filthy_.”

“Says the man with wet trousers.” You quip cheekily.

“Watch it, baby. You know how much I enjoy the sound of your wet backside against the strike of my palm.”

Your mouth opens in a little ‘o’, as if you’re scandalised. “Me, try to get a rise from you? I’d _never_. Why, the very suggestion—”

He’s making himself modest and picking you up in his arms in almost the same movement, and as he ascends the stairs with you quickly, you laugh with all the glee of a woman who has an entire night of depravity to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my tumblr, @inber to keep up with my ramblings. Thanks for reading!


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